


Bugger This for a Game of Soldiers

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: The world ended.  The War began.  This must be how things are meant to happen.  Right?





	Bugger This for a Game of Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo, using "fork in the road AU" for my wild square.
> 
> It may be a sort of AU companion piece to my previous Good Omens ficlet, ["Into the Sunset"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142836). They have, I think, kind of a two-sides-of-a-coin feeling about them. It also now has a kinda-sorta sequel: ["Ex Nihilo, Ex Amore, Ex Libris"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736189).

He has his sword back, here at the end. Well, it isn't as if War has a use for it anymore. The horseman, being a manifestation of human fear, has returned to nonexistence with the death of humanity. The beings that remain don't need a personification for their conflict. They _are_ the personification of the conflict.

Or so Gabriel says.

Aziraphale never wanted the bloody sword. He was never any good with it, anyway. 

"Get smiting!" Gabriel yells, eager and impatient and annoyed, and Aziraphale raises the sword. Never mind that he's no good with it. Never mind that he doesn't want to. He was created to be a soldier, wasn't he? All part of the ineffable plan.

It must be. If he and Crowley weren't able to stop this from happening, then it _must_ be part of the plan, mustn't it? And if it is part of the plan, the ineffable plan, then it must be meant to happen. It must be _right_ , by definition. Surely. It was selfish of him, terribly selfish, to try to get in the way.

But the thing is... The thing is, for something supposedly so ineffable, the whole thing is so awfully, horribly _concrete_. What with the ruins, and the bodies, and the choking, burning air. 

The battle that began on the plains of Megiddo has expanded now to encompass the entire world. The charred, blasted crater here beneath Aziraphale's bare and holy feet, this was once the city of Rome. Such a beautiful city. Cruel as well, often, but beautiful for all that. 

Aziraphale can taste the memory of oysters on his tongue. All gone, now. All of them, extinct in the burning seas.

"Ineffable," he whispers to himself, and tries to pretend the word still holds some form of comfort. "Ineffable."

All a part of the plan. All good. All as it should be. Surely. 

Well, all right, maybe not _this_ bit. This bit is... a necessary evil. It just needs to be got through, and then there will be a reward. Maybe it will be a good one. Maybe it won't all be bright light and _The Sound of Music_. 

Maybe there will even be another world, after. Maybe there will be oysters again, and elegantly crafted novels, and pretty little parks with ducks.

Although, in that case, it seems rather pointless to have done away with the first one. It looked to be getting along all right, didn't it? Mostly?

"I said, _get smiting_!" screams Gabriel, and Aziraphale tears his attention from the remains of the world to focus on the wave of demons approaching them.

He hefts the sword higher, because, really, what else is he going to do? For a moment he closes his eyes, feeling the familiar urge to pray, but he doesn't quite seem to remember how. He's not at all certain where God is, if She isn't here. You would think She would have bothered to put in an appearance, at least.

Giving up on prayer, Aziraphale opens his eyes and finds himself face-to-face with a snake.

The creature's yellow eyes glitter with the reflected flames of the burning world, and his fangs drip with venom and hellfire.

You wouldn't think it would be easy to read the body language of a snake, but Aziraphale has had practice, and something in the slumping curve of the serpent's body seems terribly, terribly sad.

Aziraphale lowers the sword. "Crowley?"

And Crowley is before him, his form more familiar now, save for the singed and bedraggled feathers of his wings. Aziraphale feels a sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and put them right.

Instead, he looks around them, nervous. But no one is paying attention. Gabriel is dueling Beelzebub, and half the soldiers of both sides have stopped to watch. The other half are caught up in their own struggles, utterly oblivious. The sounds of self-righteous laughter and discordant buzzing carry above the sizzling of flames and the clashing of swords, echoing across the ruins of the world.

"Hello, Aziraphale," says Crowley. And the sound of it sends something rising up through Azirpahale, some surge of angelic feeling he hasn't experienced since the end and thought he never might again.

Aziraphale looks in him the eyes. There is no dark glass between them anymore. "Crowley," he says, swallowing past the smoke and the ash that have gathered in his throat. The sword slips, unwanted, through his fingers. 

A moment of eternity passes. 

"So," he says, his tone aiming for casual but most likely arriving at desperate, instead. "Alpha Centauri, then?"

"Oh, angel," Crowley says, "I thought you'd never ask."

Dark wings enfold him, and the fires of the battle disappear, giving way to the endless shining brilliance of the stars.


End file.
